


[.event_flag]

by devilishMendicant



Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel)
Genre: ... but just monika, Gen, haha! sorry it's horrific angst, i call this little trick 'activating my vagus nerve and then releasing it unto mankind', if you suffer from depression or anxiety... don't read this, warning for suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilishMendicant/pseuds/devilishMendicant
Summary: stop playing with my heart.i didn't want to come back.





	[.event_flag]

**Author's Note:**

> today we Hurt™
> 
> or, me @ me: thanks! i hate it

She’s always been a little _less_ than everyone else.

Less interesting. Plain features, plain size, plain activities. Hobbies. _Debate club?_ Basic. Great, she likes to argue. _Athletic figure._ Lovely, she wakes up at fuck-‘o-clock AM to do yoga, or jog, or something else sickeningly normal. _Plays piano,_ the most pretty rich girl activity there could possibly be. 

Less fun. Makes wrong jokes at the wrong time. Either she’s the only one laughing or she’s the only one not laughing. Doesn’t stay out late (apparently) and doesn’t ever do anything... fun. Used to be paperwork. Now it’s reading, in the desk, in the back, by the door, alone. At least she’s good at reading. 

Nothing happens for her, and she’s pretty sure it’s because she finally, _finally_ died and was granted firmly to Hell. Nothing happens. Why on Earth would anything happen? The remainder in an equation hangs from the end of the answer, unfitting and useless and an annoyance in every respect. Nothing ever happens, and she is so bored and so desperately wants to drown out her endless cycle of thought that she _takes notes_ on her book. At least she’s good at reading. It’s for a book report, she rehearses, silently, for nobody because it isn’t as though anybody does or would ever ask. Maybe she could just tell the truth and say she’s doing it because Hell might as well be an endless book report tell the truth and say she’s doing it because there is nothing else to do tell the truth to anybody, but she doesn’t, because there’s no point.

Club President holds hands with Hole in Wall, Vice President holds hands with Amy. 

The remainder in an equation hangs from the end of the answer, unfitting and useless and an annoyance in every aspect. 

She doesn’t remember where Sayori got the rope, _no,_ she can’t remember where Sayori got the rope, _closer,_ she isn’t allowed to remember where Sayori got the rope, _there,_ and she clasps her hands together under the desk with her head down for an entire day, not that anybody saw, **no,** not that anybody noticed, **closer,** not that anybody _cared,_ **there.** Not that it wasn’t well deserved. Maybe this is more well deserved than the screaming and the colors and the numbness that she craves more and more with each slash of pain up her stomach settling cramping right below her ribs what she wouldn’t _give_ to be dead again. She supposes at this point that would be too much of a favor. She’d always thought revenge would be fast and searing and full of choking and knifepoints, not slow and searing and full of invisible choking and invisible knifepoints. What she wouldn’t give to be dead again. Yuri has knives and she isn’t allowed to remember anything more than that, like what they look like or where they are or how to use them. Too easy. Too fast. Sit down and take your penance take your punishment take your **torture** like the only good thing you’ve ever done in your life. 

She has a notebook full of pages full of writing full of notes. She could just show Hole in Wall that. Fuck poems. Fuck poetry. Fuck writing. Fuck her cute pen. Fuck Literature Club. Fuck breathing. She thinks she stabs her stupid pen through her hand one time, maybe, but there’s no hole in her hand so she knows Club President didn’t like that. 

Fuck.

She’s less. She’s always been less. She’s been less from the very beginning and she’s going to be less until Hole in Wall finally abandons them to die. Then she’s probably going to be less even while she’s dead. _What she wouldn’t give to be dead._ She can’t hold her breath even long enough to be dizzy. Club President squeezes her lungs in and out and in and out and she doesn’t get to swat those hands away, doesn’t get to complain, that’s a privilege and not a right and she is a prisoner of war. 

Alone. Alone. Alone alone alone _alone alone alone_ **alone alone alone** _**alone alone alone**_ _**alone alone alone alone alone.**_ Maybe she’d think she was lonely if everything didn’t hurt always everywhere forever and she clasps her hands together under the desk, eyes shut, pretends. She doesn’t even think of somebody, she just thinks of _anything._ A puppy. A turtle. An arm in the hallway. Just her just her just her just her just her, alone in a room full of people. 

The remainder in an equation hangs from the end of the answer, and she does not want to breathe. 

Less and unwanted and dragged from a Hell that seemed cozy in comparison to this one, where at least the searing color and screaming noise blotted out and clawed away any semblance of thoughts before she could even have them, before she could sit in the same desk for thirteen days without moving a muscle and thinking thinking thinking about how she is purposeless and unwanted and unneeded and unloved and a gigantic fucking joke on the part of God, a girl whose only purpose was to sit in blank suffering. 

_Unwanted._

_**Unwanted.** _

Just like before, just like always; before she at least had a _purpose_ and now she is just here in the desk in the back by the door alone, like a paperweight passed over in favor of other prettier heavier nicer paperweights. She stopped writing aeons ago in favor of clasping her hands together under her desk. She stopped leaving after meetings to the room with a piano, because she isn’t allowed to remember how to play the only song she ever knew and she doesn’t particularly want to make up any new ones because Club President won’t like it anyway, like when Club President didn’t like the poem she gave her that was actually a very intense exercise in writing 

_**“I want to die.”** _

in every single way she could wring out of her blocked clogged less remainder brain.

Club President didn’t like her in the first place, and she knows that because she isn’t dumb enough to believe in forgiveness for _anything_ and especially not in this fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking desk. That’s why she’s in the fucking desk. That’s why she’s going to be in the fucking desk forever. It doesn’t matter if she moves. It doesn’t matter if she _ever_ moves. Nobody sees **_no_** nobody notices _**closer**_ nobody cares, **_yes,_** and she should have left it that way such a long time ago. 

There’s no more notes to be taken and she has re-written the entire book, twice, and the pages of the notebook keep appearing and her special special pen never runs dry, so she makes every single page black and soaked with ink.

**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  
**Black.**  


It’s almost like the screaming void and she almost feels a little better. If she stares at it hard enough she can imagine that maybe she’s still there. 

  


What

 

She wouldn’t

 

Give.

 

To be dead.

 

...

Club President speaks with Hole in Wall in hushed tones, and with Vice President, and with Amy, about things, about _her,_ pleads with _them_ about _her,_ and she laughs hoarsely to herself in the desk in the back by the door because she’s always always _always_ had a broken sense of humor.

Event flags don’t fucking _matter_ if nobody wants to play the event in the first place.

But Club President Sayori was always naïve.

**Author's Note:**

> (robosapien voice) ouch


End file.
